Miracles Happen
by Anne O' the Island
Summary: When Lady Mary dies at the age of 100, she is sent back to the beginning to 'make things right.' And she certainly does, with one hundred years of life experience, and most of the twentieth century under her belt, turning Downton―and its occupants―on their heads.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello if I know you, and welcome if I don't! Before we begin this story in earnest, let me give you your program notes: I stole this idea (with permission) from Mr. Chaos, who is writing the Matthew version of this (Authors Of Our Own Fate). At the end of his first chapter, he said that he'd first considered the story from Mary's point of view, but had abandoned it. I, however, thought that it was a wonderful concept, and asked for permission to run with it._

 _And this is the result._

* * *

September 1991

Lady Mary Talbot was dying. She knew it, the doctor knew it, and the doctor knew that she knew it. The reasons for her illness were vague, but when one was one hundred years old, such things were to be expected. However weak and decrepit her body might be, however, Mary's mind was still sharp, and she sat up in bed, her eyes bright as she took in her surroundings.

A nurse came in, carrying a tray with a glass of water and a container of medication. Mary hated the constant waiting and watching, as though they were all waiting for her to kick it before taking a good look at her will to check how much everyone would inherit.

Not much, actually. The Crawley fortune had slowly crumbled, forcing her to sell the estate after the second war. The house was now open to the public, and gave tours, from what Mary had heard. She hadn't been back since she had sold it; the idea of her house―her _home_ ―being trampled through as though it were some public museum sickened her, and not a little.

Mary took the water off the tray, and downed the pills. Maybe they worked.

She watched the rain trickle down the windows, as though they wept. So much had happened during her life―not all of it good, not all of it bad. Sybbie had died in the 80's, leaving a daughter―Emma, who still visited regularly. Tom was gone, as were Edith and everyone else from the old Downton. Georgie―George, as he insisted he be called from the age of about ten onwards, had been killed in the Second World War, trying to be a hero like his father. His sister had died only a few days after birth. Henry had been killed in a train accident about a year after their daughter.

No, she was the last holdout. Anna had come along for quite a while, but she was gone now as well, since 1982―the girl had made it to 96 before joining Bates in heaven.

A knock sounded on the door, quiet, hesitant.

"Come in," Mary's voice was papery from lack of use and-dare she think it?-emotion.

Emma's face―so like Sybil's, had she lived into her thirties-appeared, smiling. She came in, and sat on the edge of the bed, facing her great-aunt. "How are you feeling today, Grandmary?" she asked, taking one of Mary's hands in hers.

"Oh, you know," Mary cocked her snow-white head, "Dying."

"Don't say that," Emma's voice took on a slight pleading tone. "Just you wait, the doctor's going to come in here, bearing news of some miraculous new cure, and you'll be well again."

"Think about what you just said, darling," Mary's right eyebrow rose slightly, " _miraculous_. At my age, one learns that miracles just don't happen. We leave them to you younger folk. And speaking of younger folk," she smiled, "are there any boys lined up, waiting to ask me for your hand in marriage?"

Emma rolled her eyes, as she always had whenever her great-aunt asked her that question; which she had been doing since Emma had been seventeen. "No. You _do_ realize we're not living in the nineteenth century anymore, don't you, Grandmary? Oh, and speaking of nineteenth century―" she pulled a brochure out of her purse and handed it to Mary. "You've been talking about Downton a lot lately, and I thought I might finally convince you to take a tour with me."

Mary waved the glossy pamphlet away. "No. What have I told you, Emma Sybil? I don't want my memories of Downton spoiled by some cheap facsimile! I will go to my grave with memories of the _true_ Downton Abbey in my mind."

"Just look at the brochure, will you?" Emma dangled it in front of her.

Aware that Emma was not going to give up, Mary snatched it out of the air. "Fine," she opened it, determined to give it a cursory look before deeming it unsuitable.

And there was Downton, large as life. "That's the Library!" she pointed to a photograph of the room, in full color. She'd never seen a color photograph of Downton before-all of hers were still black and white. She continued to flip through, exclaiming over various pictures. "Oh, that's the drawing room―and the Great Hall! And the kitchen―not quite like I remember it, but I'll forgive them that." She turned a page, and reared back. "That's...that's…" she jabbed the paper in consternation, "my _bedroom!_ How dare they print such a thing! It's private!"

"Not anymore, it isn't," Emma looked at her with a satisfied expression. "But you can go visit it, if you want to…"

"You've convinced me, my girl. I'm going to see Downton one last time."

* * *

On a brilliant Autumn afternoon a week later, the two ladies alighted from their car in front of Downton Abbey. At first, Mary experience a slight moment of confusion―shouldn't there be servants to welcome them? Oh, but there weren't servants anymore. Carefully matching her carved wooden cane with her steps, she and Emma pushed through the double doors into the main entrance hall.

And...oh, goodness. It was, well, almost exactly as she remembered it. She turned carefully, trying not to trip over her own feet. If it weren't for the reception desk over there on the right, it might as well be 1912 all over again.

"May I help you, Ma'am?" A young lady in a dark suit appeared in front of them, her hair scraped back into a bun.

Emma spoke up. "We're here for the tour."

The girl smiled. "Well, then. We've got the next tour starting in twenty minutes, if you'd like to wait there," she pointed to the row of chairs along the far wall, "after signing the guest book."

She watched Emma scribble her name into the leather-bound book before picking up the pen herself.

She paused, the pen hovering over the cream paper. "Emma, what day is it?"

"Friday."

"Not the day of the week. The _date,_ silly."

"Oh, sorry," Emma checked her watch, "the twenty-seventh."

How had she forgotten? _How could she have forgotten?_ September twenty-seventh, 1921. The date was practically branded on her heart. The birth of her son, and the the death of her husband.

Matthew―dear, sweet Matthew. Today was his death-day. How fitting that she be visiting Downton then.

Shaking her head, she pressed the pen to the paper, deciding on the spur of the moment to sign her old name.

 _Lady Mary Crawley_ , _27 September, 1991._

She was feeling more like a Crawley than a Talbot today.

The girl―Sarah, her name tag read―looked over their signatures, and her eyes widened slightly as her mouth formed the name on the page.

"Your ladyship," she looked up, awed. "I suppose I should say 'welcome home.'"

"No need to stand on ceremony," Mary waved it away, "I'm only visiting."

"If you'll take a seat," the girl fluttered her hand, "and wait. Will you be needing any assistance?" she eyed the cane in Mary's hand, "there are miles of staircases in this house, and you might find it a bit difficult-"

"I did it before, and I'll do it again." Mary set her jaw determinedly. She'd burn in Hell before she'd need help getting up the grand staircase.

The previous tour group―a busload of Americans―trooped into the hall, talking amongst themselves. Mary caught snatches of conversation― "Oh, it's so elegant!" "Did you _see_ the ballroom?" "Lady Mary was forced to sell, you know." "I wish I could have met her."

Mary bit back a smile and settled herself more comfortably in the chair. She was here purely out of nostalgic reasons, not to sign autographs.

Slowly, new visitors trickled in. None of them quite as old as she was, but a few of them could have given Sybbie some competition, age-wise. Most of them looked around, awed by the opulence of the place. And Mary had to admit that it was indeed quite something. If anything, she didn't remember it being this _grand_. Had she really lived in this house, thinking nothing of how much went into keeping it so magnificent? She felt slightly humbled, remembering how on-edge Carson and Mrs. Hughes had sometimes been―they were the ones truly running the household, after all. The master was simply given the illusion that he was in charge.

Another woman, this time in a trim white blouse and burgundy skirt, appeared in front of them. "Good afternoon," she clasped her hands in front of her, "and welcome to Downton Abbey. Before we begin, are there any returning visitors?"

A couple to Mary's left raised their hands, as did Mary, although only halfway.

"Yes, I remember you, Mr. and Mrs. Weatherby," the guide greeted them, "although," she turned to Mary, "I don't think I've met you, ma'am."

"I don't think you have, dear," Mary wondered how far she could take this, "before your time," she added kindly. "I was at Downton when the Crawleys still owned it."

As the tour got underway, the guide began her rehearsed speech, telling of the history of the place, how it had been built in 1679, rebuilt over the foundations in the early half of the 1800s, and had passed through the various generations of Lord Granthams, before Lady Mary Crawley, the last Mistress of Downton Abbey, had been forced to sell. Mary followed along with the history that was as much a part of her as her genetic makeup. Downton was her ancestral seat, rich with history and secrets-and _hers_ , no matter who owned it now.

The tour then made its way up the grand staircase, to the upper levels. The guide, whose name, much to Mary's amusement, was Elise Hughes―so close to Mrs. Hughes' name before she had married Carson―took them through corridors Mary was willing to bet good money she could still follow blindfolded.

"This is the Master bedroom," Miss Hughes announced as they entered a familiar light blue room. "Well, technically, it was the Mistress's bedroom, but Lord and Lady Grantham threw convention to the wind and shared a room."

Ah, yes. Mary recalled having reminded her parents that, "You know, smart people keep separate rooms," and her father informing her that he kept a bed made up in his dressing room to keep up that very illusion. The room itself was almost as Mary remembered it―save for the fact that the biscuit jar was missing from the nightstand. She almost expected her mother to be sitting in the chaise lounge, reminding her that she was 'damaged goods' and for heaven's sake to find a husband soon.

Ah, happy days. Mary barely kept from stumbling over her cane as she rolled her eyes, grasping Emma's arm for support, tottering a little as the exited the room. Thank goodness feminism had advanced in the past eighty years. She hated to think what her mother's reaction to a woman like Emma would be.

The tour followed Miss Hughes through Edith and Sybil's rooms, a guest room, and then the room Matthew and Mary had shared, still dark green, with its four-poster bed―Mary gave that bed a fond look; the things it had seen, after all―and the dressing table.

"This is the Queen Caroline Room," Miss Hughes informed her charges. "It belonged to Lady Mary Crawley, and later on, after her marriage to her cousin, Matthew Crawley―"

 _Fourth cousin_ , Mary corrected her silently.

"―was their bedroom. It would seem that the Crawleys were an untraditional lot, as these two also refused to keep separate rooms."

Did these people have nothing better to do than marvel at the sleeping arrangements of the aristocracy? Mary wondered as they made their way down the bachelors' corridor. It was slightly ridiculous, that all these years later, people were commenting on hers and Matthew's sleeping arrangements.

Part of her wanted to give that Miss Hughes a good lecture about the respect due to one's elders. Another part was too amused―and the last part was, quite frankly, too tired to lecture anyone, or even to be remotely amused.

"And now," Miss Hughes threw open the last door with no small amount of drama, "I present the guest room. Or rather, the most famous guest room. It is here," she said, "that Kemal Pamuk, a Turkish diplomat, died suddenly in his sleep in the Spring of 1913. There are, however, rumors that he did not die in _this_ room, exactly, but in Lady Mary's bed after a...tryst of some sort."

Was that relish she detected in that woman's voice? Really, she was going to have to give her a piece of her mind, thought Mary. Simply airing out the family scandals as if they were the laundry!

To say nothing of the fact that this rumor was indeed true…

As they continued down the corridor, Miss Hughes going on about a kitchen maid who had married a dying footman, wounded during the Great War, to keep his spirits up, Mary began to lag behind. Coming to a halt, she patted Emma's arm.

"You know what, dear? I'm feeling rather tired―"

Emma gave her a look of alarm. "Grandmary, if you're feeling ill, I can―"

"Just let me finish my sentence, please. I said _tired_ , not _ill_. You go on ahead with the rest of them, and listen to all the fascinating things I've already told you, while I go back and find a quiet corner to sit down and rest awhile."

"Do you need my help finding one?"

"Oh, _please_ ," the sardonic look leveled in Emma's direction would have been enough to make a seasoned servant back in the day quake in their boots. "If there is anyone in this house who does _not_ require assistance finding anything, it is me. Now go on," she waved, "shoo."

Emma having been "shooed", Mary retraced her steps, clinging to the moulding and her stick for support. Clearly, she was weaker than she had thought. She blinked as she nearly fell through a door. Taking stock of her surroundings, she realized she was back in her old bedroom.

Well, she supposed, there was no better place than this to take a nap. And if anyone complained, she could wave her name and title under their nose-that would probably take care of any shock at finding her here.

Skirting the velvet rope meant to separate the plebes from the artifacts―because yes, her former possessions were now 'artifacts', neatly labeled and catalogued someplace, she leaned her cane against the nightstand before easing herself onto the mattress―a good deal less comfortable than she remembered, but what else was to be expected of a ninety-year-old bed that hadn't been turned in over forty years?

Mary stretched out her hundred-year-old back, hearing the spine crack in several places, before settling back against the pillows. It felt surprisingly _good_ to be back here. She felt none of the heartbreak she had expected―only peace.

"Mary?"

She rolled her head to the left, to find herself looking into a very familiar, very dear set of piercing blue eyes.

"Matthew." Her voice no longer felt scratchy and papery, but strong. "What are you―" she reached out a hand to touch him, stopping just before she did, lest he disappear.

"What am I doing here?" He stretched out his long, tweed-clad legs in front of him. "Being dead, for one thing. Missing you, for another."

"Does that mean I'm...dead?" she hesitated with that word. It sounded so very _final._

"Yes, you are. Or very near to it, I should say," Matthew smiled calmly. "Either way, I'm glad you're here, because I can finally―"

"I thought I heard you two," Lady Grantham's dark head poked into view around the door, and she stepped in, oblivious to Matthew's groan of, "Is there _no_ peace in this house?"

Cora Crawley stepped over to the bed and kissed her daughter on the forehead. "Now, I haven't much time to say this, darling, so I'll be quick. You must go back."

Mary sat up with a jolt. "Go back where?"

"To the beginning, of course," her mother smiled again.

" _Our_ beginning, to be more precise," Matthew joined in. "You're the only one who can."

"Save Downton," the Earl appeared, his blue eyes bright as he stared her down.

"Save us," chorused Sybil, William, and Lavinia from the foot of the bed.

"All life is a series of problems which we must try and solve," the all-too familiar voice of the Dowager Countess rang out over them all. "Remember that, dear, when you're there. And don't be a defeatist―it's terribly middle class."

Matthew reached over and pressed her hand. "Don't mind all of that. Just make it right, darling."

She felt wave after wave of confusion break over her. "But...I don't understand. Make _what_ right?"

And suddenly she was falling...

Falling through mist…

Falling through time…

She felt herself land with a soft thump, before losing consciousness and slipping under a wave of blackness.

* * *

A rustle of fabric, a scrape of curtain rings as the drapes were flung open, and a beam of sunlight pierced the gloom. It also pierced Mary's right eye, and she moved her head out of the way with a muffled groan. Good God, what had happened to her? She felt as though she had spent a month at Woodstock, then been trampled by an elephant. And then, for good measure, been shot to the moon and back.

A soft voice came from the far corner. "Good morning, milady."

That sounded suspiciously like―she opened an eye to make certain. " _Anna?_ What are you doing here?"

Amusement and confusion warred for dominance on the lady's maid's face. "Opening the curtains, milady, same as I do every morning."

"But...you died nine years ago."

"I don't think so, milady. I'm very much alive," Anna smiled slightly.

Mary passed a hand―a smooth, unwrinkled one―over her eyes. "It must have been a dream, then. Where's Matthew?"

"Matthew, milady?"

What kind of a joke was this? "My husband. The first one."

Now worry was spreading over Anna's face. "I can assure you, milady, that you have never been married―and certainly not twice."

But she could _hear_ Matthew's voice, telling her to 'make it right'. And she knew that hadn't all been in her imagination. How did Anna not know who he was? Unless…

"Anna, what day is it?"

Worry turned into full-blown anxiety. "Milady, are you feeling well?"

"Yes, yes," she waved away her maid's concern, "I'm feeling fine."

And she _did_ feel fine, she realized. All the little aches and pains that came with being a century old were nonexistent. Sitting up in bed, she noticed that her back didn't make atrocious noises when she moved. And her hands were are smooth as they had been the day she married―

 _Oh, good Lord_. She was young again. The question was, how young? She was at Downton, and Anna didn't know who Matthew was, so...that meant that everyone was still living!

She swung her legs out of bed, pulling on her robe as she tore out into the hall, ignoring Anna's shocked exclamation of "Milady!"

Rushing down the corridor in her bare feet, she burst into her parents' bedroom without knocking, to see her father standing at the window, while her mother sat in bed, reading _The Sketch._ She looked up at him from her paper, a grief-struck look on her face.

"Isn't it terrible?"

And suddenly, Mary knew what day it was.

April 15, 1912.

* * *

 _And there you have it. I'm going to do my best to update this (and my other story) fairly regularly, although I can already tell you that my schedule is not going to be a pleasant one for the next few months, so I make no promises._

 _If, however, this chapter has been enough to entice you to follow along with me, do click that 'Subscribe' button, and maybe send a review my way. I'd appreciate it, as this is my first time doing a Downton fanfic._

 _And many thanks to Mr. Chaos for letting me play with his brainchild. It's been fun!_


	2. Chapter 2

_This chapter covers what is most of Episode 1 and part of Episode 2. I know this, because I decided (in my seemingly infinite ability to go off on wild-goose chases) to go find the Downton Abbey scripts. Ah, research..._

 _By the way, have you read Mr. Chaos' Authors Of Our Own Fate? It's quite good, to the point where I will sit here and wait for you to go read it. Go on, now._

 _Oh, good. You're back. On with the show!_

* * *

"Pardon me, milady, but you don't seem very surprised about Mr. James or poor Mr. Patrick," Anna brushed out one of Mary's long, dark brown curls the morning after the family had learned about the _Titanic_ tragedy.

"I'm not, honestly," Mary rested her chin in her palm, looking back at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. It was so nice to be able to look at herself without cringing again. She vowed to be more appreciative of her looks this time around. Meeting Anna's eyes in the mirror, she continued, "I had...a feeling this might happen."

Anna's brows drew together. "But how, milady? No one could have predicted this―it was supposed to be unsinkable."

"What is it that Papa said? ' _Every mountain is unclimbable until someone climbs it; therefore every ship is unsinkable until it sinks._ ' Something like that, anyways. I don't know―I just…" She trailed off, not knowing how to complete her sentence. 'I just' what? _Died two days ago and eighty years in the future, so I knew this would happen?_ That would never do.

She fingered the dark crepe mourning gown Anna had put out, and then gave a baleful look to the corset that would accompany it. Of all the things she remembered fondly, corsets and mourning clothes were _not_ part of the list. Still, she let Anna lace her up, her younger body used to the daily ritual, even if her mind rebelled at the thought.

Where, she wondered, was _Ms._ magazine when you needed it?

Dismissing Anna, she sat down at her desk, pulling a sheet of stationery out of her stack. Dipping her pen into the inkwell, she brushed it against the lip of the bottle to clear it of excess ink, and touched it to the paper to begin her list.

 _Things To Make Right_

 _-Keep Papa from making idiotic investments._

 _-Make friends with Matthew earlier_ ― _there's no point in spending the next six years in a snit about him._

 _-Keep William from dying_

 _-Ditto for Sybil_

 _...And Lavinia, I suppose_

Here, she paused. Frankly, she had no intention of allowing Lavinia anywhere _near_ Matthew, which would keep her away from Downton, which in turn would spare her the 'flu pandemic of 1919. So, while she wasn't quite ready to cross that off the list yet, she was fairly certain that would resolve itself.

Her stomach growled, reminding her of why ladies put on their corsets before breakfast. She was absolutely starving―and if she knew Mrs. Patmore, a household in mourning would only mean more food.

Carefully, she locked her list in a drawer―it wouldn't do for strange eyes to set on it. God only knew where that could lead to.

* * *

Sybil looked up when Mary entered the dining room. "You're late this morning," she noted. "What kept you? I'm usually the last one down."

Mary stepped to the sideboard to fill up a plate. "Oh, just some writing. And Anna had to mend a rip in my dress," she fibbed, adding on to her story as she sat down at a sunlit section of the table, pulling her father's discarded newspaper towards her.

Edith looked at her plate from across the table and raised a thin eyebrow. "Well, _that's_ quite an interesting selection of food. Have you suddenly gotten dentures?"

Mary looked down at her plate. She had unwittingly selected the softest foods available to her: cooked apples, scrambled eggs, and a small ramekin of custard. For a moment, her mind went blank as she processed the fact that for the first time in what, to her, was forty years, she did not have dentures―and realized that she was still picking out denture-friendly foods. "I must not have been thinking," she said airily, "and me so fond of bacon." She went to get herself a portion, enjoying the crisp crackle of the fried pork for what felt like the first time in an eternity.

"You must be sad about Patrick," Sybil suggested by way of explanation.

"Oh, please," Edith looked back down at her own plate, obscuring her face from view, " _look_ at her. Does she look anything like a woman whose fiancé just drowned?"

Mary looked up from her newspaper sharply. "Edith, I may not be making a scene, but I am still sorry about Patrick. But he's dead now, and there's nothing we can do about it."

"But he was your―"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, he was _not_ my fiancé!" Mary exclaimed in exasperation. "I would only have married him if no one better came along."

As she returned to her newspaper article detailing the last moments of the _Titanic_ victims―something one really did not need to be reading over breakfast―she realized that she mourned Patrick more this time around than she had the last. Perhaps it was that before, he had simply been the boorish heir who would someday inherit the estate―and her to boot. Now, he was just her cousin, her old playmate.

And she mourned him all the more for it.

* * *

Mary exited the dining room, only to find Anna waiting for her. "Terribly sorry, milady, but your father's sent for you."

"What for?" Mary brushed a piece of imaginary lint from her black sleeve. "Does it have to do with Patrick?"

Anna shrugged. "It's not my place to ask, milady. He's waiting for you in the Library."

"Ours not to reason why," quipped Mary, leaving her maid standing outside the dining room as she trotted off to find the Earl.

"Papa?" Mary pushed open the door leading to the library. "You sent for me?"

The Earl of Grantham stood up from his desk and turned to her, a pained look on his face. "Murray just sent a telegram. They've found a new heir."

Mary's heart slowly slid out of her throat and into its proper place. So _this_ was shy he'd called her. To tell her that she would not be inheriting Downton. "And...and who is he?"

"A Matthew Crawley."

Mary's heart gave a queer little thump, which her older self would have diagnosed as an arrhythmia. So Matthew would be coming, then. "And what's so terrible about this Mr. Crawley? Is he some criminal?"

"No...a lawyer."

Mary laughed inwardly at her father's expression, comparable to that of a person faced with getting a tooth pulled. "So far, there's no difference between him and Murray, Papa. What is it that makes him so very undesirable?"

The Earl sighed. "Nothing, I suppose. It's just that he's going to be...different. From us, that is. He's a middle-class lawyer. He won't know how to manage an estate, how to manage servants, or anything pertaining to Downton, really. I have more confidence in, well, _you_."

"Well, thank you for that ringing endorsement," Mary tried not to snort derisively. "But I'm fairly certain that he, like any other human being, can learn," she tried to inject a soothing tone into her voice. "Besides, you won't be leaving us for a good many years, Papa. By the time the title comes to him, he'll be as good as Patrick."

Her father glared at her with an I-thought-you-were-on-my-side look. "Why are you so suddenly in favor of this man you've never met?"

"I…" Mary floundered a bit, before choosing the answer that had worked best for her that morning, "I have a good feeling about him."

"Well, you may," the Earl turned back to his desk, "but I'll continue to have reservations until I see him myself."

* * *

After that, the days slowly stretched into an interminable period of waiting, only marked by the change in seasons and clothes turning from black to grey to violet; until finally, on the last Sunday in August, they were allowed to wear colors again. Mary tried to remember how soon after their wearing colors Matthew had arrived. Was it two weeks, or three? She racked her brain trying to remember, but the memories grew dimmer, if anything.

She passed the time by reading the business and financials section of the newspaper, trying to choose stocks with a combination of analysis and her own knowledge of which had done well historically. Hopefully, she would be able to approach her father with some alternate investment opportunities.

However, waiting for Matthew and Isobel to appear was quite hard on the nerves. She kept checking the post for letters from Manchester, and when she wasn't, she was imagining how her reunion―or first meeting―with Matthew would go.

She couldn't very well rush up to him and fling her arms around his neck―he'd think her mad. And she certainly didn't intend to insult him from the first. She didn't want to spend the next six years in an awkward dance of will-he-won't-he.

Ideally, she just wanted to pick up where they had left off―September 27, 1921. But _that_ , she knew, was impossible. In brief, she had absolutely no idea how their first meeting would go. But she was sure it would not go the way it had last time.

And finally― _finally_ ―three weeks later, Crawley House was opened up, and servants engaged from the village. At this point, Mary was on pins and needles, waiting for an appropriate time to visit the newcomers. She received the news of their arrival with what she hoped was an appropriate expression―in other words, without dancing around the room. And _then_ she still had to wait for her mother to send her with that dinner invitation before she could have her horse saddled.

She was pleased to find out that after all this time, she could still keep her seat well. As a result, she found her ride to the village to be a pleasant one―as pleasant as it could be, considering that she was trying to keep her heart from outracing her horse. As she dismounted outside Crawley House, she took a moment to compose herself. She hadn't seen him in seventy years―or ever, depending on which way you looked at it. She wanted to make a good impression.

"Hello, Molesley," she smiled at the butler when he opened the door for her, "Are Mr. and Mrs. Crawley at home?"

The butler tripped over his tongue several times in shock at the fact that Lady Mary― _Lady Mary_ ―knew who he was. "He-she-they are, milady."

Mary smiled as she heard the familiar rumble of voices coming from the front parlor. "Good. Then I should like to see them, if you wouldn't mind announcing me."

Molesley led the way into the hall, and Matthew's voice became clearer, floating out to them. "I have to be myself, Mother. I'll be no use to anyone if I can't be myself. And before they, or you, get any ideas, I will choose my own wife."

"What on earth do you mean?" This from Isobel, recognizable by her lighter timbre.

"Well, they're clearly going to push one of the daughters at me. They'll have fixed on that when they heard I was a bachelor."

Even after nearly eighty years, it was undeniable that these words stung. Also, Mary realized, she'd forgotten exactly how much of a _prat_ Matthew had been upon his arrival. She had, admittedly, been less than welcoming, but she was almost willing to excuse her behavior in light of _his_.

Molesley gave her a pained look before clearing his throat and announcing her. "Lady Mary Crawley."

Mary stepped into the room, and _there he was_. Standing with his back to her, before turning with a stunned look on his face that soon turned to hastily concealed horror that she had overheard him.

Mary had forgotten quite how adorable Matthew was when he was embarrassed.

She had also underestimated how strong her reaction to seeing him again would be. Therefore, she beat back her rising tears with a stick and pasted a smile onto her face. "I do hope I'm not interrupting." The words were out of her mouth before she realized that they were exactly the ones she had used the first time around. "Mama sent me to invite you to dine with us. Unless you're…"

"We would be delighted," Isobel interjected, throwing a sharp look in her son's direction.

"Good. Come at eight." Mary racked her brains for a way to have the conversation end better than it had last time.

Isobel saved her. "Won't you stay and have some tea, Lady Mary?"

Mary sat down, smiling gratefully. "It's Cousin Mary, please. My family doesn't call me by my title," she saw Matthew's shoulders relax―just a little―but enough to give her hope. "And yes, I would love a cup, thank you." She took the proffered porcelain cup in a gloved hand, letting the heat seep through the kid.

She turned to Matthew. "Tell me, Mr. Crawley―"

"It's Matthew, please," a corner of his mouth hiked up, and she could see some of the frost melt out of his eyes, "my family doesn't call me by my title, either."

And _there_ was the sense of humor she remembered. "Very well, then, _Matthew_. What sort of law do you practice? Papa was rather vague with the details."

She could see him getting defensive again―you weren't married to someone without knowing their inner workings, after all. "Country law," he said shortly.

"That's mostly contracts and such, isn't it?" she was asking this mainly for the sake of conversation, and to help the poor boy feel more at home. He looked completely out of his element, and Mary felt a pang of guilt for the way she had treated him before.

"It is, mostly," Matthew nodded, latching onto a subject he was comfortable with. "When I say that I'm a lawyer, most people think I spend my time in court, wearing a wig and making speeches. Most of my existence is actually spent in an office, trying to convince people _not_ to go to court."

"Well," Mary set down her cup and saucer with a _clink_ and stood, smoothing her skirts, "this has been very enjoyable, but I must get going. Thank you for the tea. I'll see you at eight." She turned to leave the room, aware of Matthew's eyes on her back.

As she turned the corner, she heard Isobel hiss, "Go and apologize, Matthew."

Mary nearly stopped in her tracks. _This_ was certainly a deviation from the original.

"But―"

"No buts, young man. Do you want to start off on the wrong foot?"

Mary exited the house, and the conversation quieted until she could no longer hear it.

As she was putting her foot in the stirrup, she heard hurried footsteps behind her.

"Lady Mary, I hope you didn't misunderstand me―I was only joking," Matthew came towards her with an expression of regret on his face.

Mary took her foot out of the stirrup and looked at the manservant who had accompanied her. "Lynch, go on without me. If anyone asks, tell them I'll be there about fifteen minutes after you."

"But your father, milady―"

"My father," she interrupted him, "will be pleased to know that I am getting along with my relatives." She watched Lynch depart at a trot before turning back to Matthew. "So. You were in the middle of apologizing."

"Yes," he ducked his head, "for my earlier behavior. I suppose I just―"

She put her hand on his arm, stilling him. "At an earlier time, I might have returned your...let's call it a joke, shall we? But I've aged since then, and I can tell you that when a person is thrown as you have been into an unfamiliar environment, they can easily become hostile. It's perfectly understandable for you to be a bit on edge. And if it makes you feel any better, I can promise to disregard anything you say for the next three months." She took her horse by the reins and led him out the gate and into the road, Matthew keeping pace with them.

He laughed out loud. "You, Lady Mary, are not at all what I had expected."

"I'm glad to hear it; I should hate to be predictable."

"No," he shook his head, "that's not what I meant. You seem...wise beyond your years."

"I shall take that as a compliment," she informed him, squinting into the afternoon sun. "I'd rather be wise than antagonize you too early. But don't worry, it's early days yet. I'd say we have plenty of arguments in our future."

"About Downton, do you mean?"

"About Downton, about money, about each other," she said breezily, before becoming serious. "Look...whatever happens, I am going to be on your side. Times are changing, and you, Mr. Crawley the middle-class lawyer from Manchester, are going to shepherd us into them. Traditions are all well and good, but they won't serve us as well in a few years. And besides, what's the saying―tradition is meant to be broken?"

"I think that's _rules_ that are meant to be broken," he smiled. "You're being very kind, Lady Mary. This may just be my lawyerly and suspicious nature, but do you happen to have an ulterior motive?"

 _If only you knew_. "Drop the honorific, please. It's just Mary, Matthew. As to my motives, I've learned over the years that it's easier to be friends with one's family. Now," she placed a foot into the stirrup again, and hoisted herself gracefully into the saddle, "I must get going, lest I miss the dressing gong." She extended her hand for him to shake in farewell.

He took it and looked up at her. "Are we to be friends, then?"

"Granny would say that it is much more effective to be allies," she smiled as her heart, young organ that it was, continued to thump all over the place. "But yes, I should hope that we are." She withdrew her hand, missing the warmth of his already, and gathered up the reins. "I'll see you at eight, then."

She gave her horse a quick nudge in the side with her boot, throwing a smile over her shoulder before she left him standing in the middle of the road, staring after her.

Well, it seemed she could cross one item off her list now.

Matthew Crawley was her friend.

* * *

 _And so ends this chapter. I had mounds of fun reading the Downton Abbey scripts for this (which, thank God, are available online), and having excuses to rewatch the show, starting with Episode 1._

 _Also, a great big thank-you to everyone who reviewed, followed, favorited, PM'd, etc., etc...my jaw is still somewhere on the floor from where it dropped last time I read your comments._


	3. Chapter 3

_Hello, and welcome back! I hope you're enjoying the story so far, and feel free to send in your suggestions as to what you think Mary should do/add to her list of to do's. Also, what do you think she should have done in her seventy years post-Matthew? Woodstock's on the list, as is the women's movement. After that, I'm a little lost...ideas, anyone? Obviously, Mary was not the type to stay home and knit socks._

 _So far, I think the stage for a smoother path has been set...but we still have Pamuk, and the baby, and the war, and paralysis, and possibly Lavinia, although I'm not too sure about her...either way, the story is just beginning!_

* * *

Mary, as it turned out, did not miss the dressing gong, although she came perilously close. Hurrying into the house, she met the Earl in the Library, where he was poring over a thick, and not all too clean, volume from what appeared to be the highest shelf.

She knocked against the doorframe before stepping over the threshold. "I've just come from Crawley House," she began, trying to sound nonchalant, "Mama sent me down to invite Matthew and Cousin Isobel to dinner."

And realized her mistake when her father's head snapped up, his eyes flitting back and forth between hers. "On first name terms with them already, are we?" he asked tightly, closing the book with a resounding _snap_. "What's next?" he muttered, almost to himself, "dismissal of all the servants? Living in a cave, catching our own food?" He realized that he had spoken aloud and checked himself, turning back to his daughter. "Well, how do you like them?"

Mary took a moment, wondering how to phrase her ideas so that he might understand. "They're...different, Papa."

"You can say that again."

"No, what I mean is," she gesticulated, trying to find the right words, "They've been thrown into this rather precipitously, and as such, may need some time to adjust to it all. After all, can't you imagine that learning that you're to be the next Earl of Grantham might be a bit of a shock?"

"No, I always knew that I would―"

"Just _try_!" Under her breath, she muttered, "Honestly, children nowadays!" before biting her tongue. It wouldn't do to show her hand now. _Especially_ not to her father.

"Very well," the Earl conceded, "I agree that it might take some...adjustment. But he's had a month, for God's sake! Can't he―"

"He'll need more than a month, Papa. Please try to understand that. He'll turn out fine in the end, I promise you. But until he does…" she trailed off, "be kind to him." She turned to leave, but was stopped by her father's clearing his throat.

"And what about dinner? You said your mother sent you with an invitation."

Mary looked back, one foot already out the door. "Oh, right. They'll be here at eight." Hearing her father's whispered "Oh, _God_ ," she repeated, "be kind to him."

The metallic crash of the gong echoed through the house, shaking them both out of their discussion. Grateful to have an excuse to leave, she exited the Library, to complete the still slightly foreign nightly ritual of dressing for dinner.

* * *

"Someone please remind me why we wear corsets?" Mary braced one hand against her abdomen as Anna tightened the stays. She supposed she should be grateful corsets weren't as tight as they had been, say, fifteen years ago, but this was truly getting ridiculous. One day, she was just going to snap, and appear downstairs sans corset. Which, if she were to ask Grandmother Violet's opinion, would be tantamount appearing stark naked.

"Because we have to."

"Because fashion requires it, milady."

"I have no idea."

These answers came from Edith, Anna, and Sybil, in that order. Edith was perched on Mary's bed, her corset laced up as tight as―if not tighter than―fashion dictated. When one was known as the plain Crawley sister, one did what one had to do to keep up with one's sisters.

Sybil lounged at the foot of the same bed, with complete disregard to the dress she was sitting on and crumpling by doing so.

"Sybil, I agree with you, and I will agree with you even more the minute you get off my dress," Mary waved her hand to shoo her sister off the garment. "And Edith, why do we have to lace ourselves up in these things? Men don't."

"They did, though," Edith informed her.

"But they don't anymore! And why? Because they were too damned uncomfortable." Mary ignored the gasp that was repeated threefold at her damnation of corsets. "And I think it's high time women got to do the same."

"I agree!" Sybil had scrambled off the dress by then and made herself at home on Mary's dressing table stool.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Edith sat even straighter, if at all possible, causing Mary to feel the desire to take her by the shoulders and give her a good shake, "I've never known you to be such a feminist, Mary. And Sybil, you're far too young to understand women's suffrage. We wear corsets because that is what we do. We look better that way, and our chances of getting married are higher the prettier we are."

"Not that that's helped you any," mumbled Mary, wishing almost immediately that she could take those words back―it wasn't fair to Edith―but her old brain sometimes lost control of her young tongue, resulting in things like…

Edith went white in the face. "You take that back."

"On one condition," some part of Mary was appalled that, even after insulting Edith in this way, she could still have the _gall_ to make demands, "we do not disagree with each other for at least a week."

Edith swallowed. "Fine," she ground out. "Now take it back."

"I apologize, Edith."

"Good," Edith proceeded to stalk out of the room, "I'm going downstairs now, to meet the new heir. I'm told he's coming for dinner."

The moment the door closed behind her, all eyes swiveled back to Mary.

Sybil looked at her sternly. "That was low, Mary."

"I know," Mary turned to allow Anna better access to the buttons on the back of the dress, "I don't know what came over me―I just...well, I got annoyed. Can we chalk it up to an inadequate amount of oxygen?"

"I suppose we can, this once," Sybil rose from the stool and came to stand in front of her. "I still agree with you, though. Corsets ought to be abolished."

* * *

"What a reception committee," Mary winced inwardly at Matthew's words. Yes, she could see how the rows of servants and the entire family gathered in the entrance hall could be seen as intimidating, but…

Oh, dear. Cousin Isobel was stepping up to Granny.

"What shall we call each other?"

Mary watched the Dowager Countess purse her lips regally before suggesting, "Well, we could always start with Mrs. Crawley and Lady Grantham."

Up until this point, it had never really occurred to Mary how horrible her family could be. Her mother stepped forward, smiling tightly. Over the course of the summer, Cora Crawley had made it abundantly clear that she intended to fight the entail―even if her husband would not. So her entire attitude towards the newcomers seemed rather forced. "Why don't we all go into the drawing room and we can make all the proper introductions."

Introductions having been made, the company began to mill about the drawing room, separating into its societally approved groups―the men with the men, the wives with the wives, the the old maids off to one side; newcomers or outcasts were to stand on the fringes of it all, looking in.

And that was the position Matthew found himself in, standing stiffly off to one side, as the dinner party took part in this elaborate dance everyone but him knew the steps to.

Mary spied him from across the room and made her way through to him. "Here," she handed him a champagne glass, "this might help."

"Alcohol?"

"Sometimes the only way the aristocracy can deal with each other," she informed him. "They don't get drunk, but it does blur things a bit."

"I like my wits about me, thank you," he pressed his lips into a thin line.

"And one glass will keep them there, I assure you. But I can also assure you that it is a good vintage, and that my family will seem more likeable after it."

"With a recommendation like that…" he took a careful sip, nodding, "well, it _is_ quite good. If nothing else, I will have had some excellent wine."

"It's all about the priorities," she smiled, turning as Carson entered the room.

"Milady," he said, turning to the Countess, "dinner is served."

Mary turned towards the door, looking back at Matthew, "Ready for your baptism of fire?"

* * *

"Well, that wasn't too bad," Mary remarked after their guests had left.

Her grandmother raised a finger in objection. "I would be to differ, Mary dear. The future heir of Downton has informed us that he will be _working_ , instead of learning how to run the estate―and heaven knows he needs to learn. His mother would like to work at the Cottage hospital. What, I ask you, is next? Should the servants come up to dine with us tomorrow? I assure you that I will no longer be surprised at _anything_."

Edith joined them, sitting on the sofa across from Mary. "It could have been worse, Granny: at least he knows how to use a fork."

"Oh then, by all means, let us simply _fork_ over the estate, the grounds, your mother's fortune, to this man―on the grounds that he knows how to use his silverware." Lady Violet sniffed, thumping her cane against the plush rug.

"You'll grow used to him, Granny," Mary reassured her, remembering how her grandmother had objected "Yes, but we're _used_ to Matthew now," when the false Patrick had arrived. "And he won't seem quite so terrible when he grows used to us, either."

"When did you become a student of human nature, Mary?" Edith sensed something different about her sister now.

"I'm not, Edith," Mary replied easily, "I spent the afternoon at Crawley House, though, and both of them are much less…"

"Horrifying?" suggested the Dowager.

"Intimidated. I was _going_ to say that they're much less intimidated, and much more human, when they're not surrounded by us." Mary suppressed an eye-roll.

"That will be as it may be," Lady Violet sniffed again, "but I _do_ have one question: what _is_ a week-end?"

* * *

"Honestly, darling―I can't believe your own _father_ won't fight for you," Cora, Countess of Grantham, whispered to her eldest daughter as they made their way upstairs to retire for the evening. She had just done battle with her husband in the library...and it appeared that she was losing it. One thing was clear, however: the Earl would be sleeping in his dressing room tonight.

"Mama," Mary put a hand on her mother's arm, "I certainly appreciate that you and Granny want to break the entail―heaven knows that's an antiquated concept if there ever was one―but if you do that, Downton will fall. The money is so tightly tied up in the estate that any attempt to separate them would have disastrous consequences."

"Since when do you quote your father?" Lady Grantham huffed.

"Mama, he's quoting me. You may have noticed I've taken an interest in finances?" she looked over to see the countess nod slowly. "I've been reading the financials, and I went down to see Murray one day to check what the outgoing expenses for Downton were."

"I thought that was only because you wanted to know how to manage the estate when we broke the entail!"

Mary fought the urge to give her mother a good shake. "Mama, have you been listening to a word I've been saying? If you succeed in breaking the entail, there won't _be_ an estate to manage!" She drew breath, preparing her final attack. "The spending has been...irresponsible, at best, idiotic at worst. Someone has to take it in hand. Don't you think that someone more used to moderation, budgets, and a simpler lifestyle might be just what Downton needs?"

"Darling, as an American, I don't quote your father much, but Downton has history, a grand tradition of―"

"Of overspending, and then getting rescued by the fortunes of heiresses." Mary supplied the answer. "And that is a tradition we can certainly dispense with. It doesn't set a good example to the county either, the fact that the Granthams always come to the brink of bankruptcy, only to be saved by some heiress. You were the last, and Papa's not exactly on a budget."

The Countess gasped. "I will not have you talk that way about your father!"

"Well, someone has to." Mary came to a halt on the step above her mother and turned to face her. "Mama, please try to understand. Breaking the entail will serve no one in the end. I'll be left with a fortune hunter, Sybil and Edith may have to give up their dowries, and Matthew will be left with an empty title. Is that what you want?"

Cora swept past her. "I can't believe that it would be all that black, darling," she looked over her shoulder, her blue eyes glittering. "You're my daughter, and it's _my_ money. I'll continue to fight."

* * *

"No, thank you, Mrs. Jameson―I think that will be all," Mary put down the money for sealing wax and seal, taking the paper bag with her purchases in exchange. Stepping outside Jameson's stationery shop, she relished the fresh fall air, so different from the way the air would be in eighty years. The smell of gasoline was still unknown to many in Yorkshire, and the only thing lacing the air that day was the smell of burning peat. As she tipped her head back to look at the brilliant blue sky above her, it dawned on Mary that she was acting entirely out of character. The old Mary would never have allowed the color of the sky to concern her unless it meant that she had to cancel a plan or two. Still, she wasn't that Mary anymore. She had, somewhere between the Second World War and Woodstock, gained an appreciation for the smaller things in life, the ones that she had previously taken for granted.

But to keep enough suspicions at bay, she let her head fall forward until it was facing the road in front of her, her wide hat brim shading her face.

She turned back onto the main road, passing offices and shops on her way out of the village and toward Downton. She had elected to walk instead of ride or drive, partly because she wanted to enjoy what she was fairly certain would be one of the last nice fall days before they got damp and dreary, but also because―

"Hello there. Bird watching?" a familiar voice called out from behind her. She turned to see Matthew stepping out of Harvell and Carter's, buttoning up his overcoat.

―and yes, because she was hoping she might run into him.

"Well, that would depend on the birds I came upon," she informed him archly, before smiling. "Hello, Cousin Matthew."

"Hello, Lady Mary."

She raised her eyes to high heaven. "I'm not a duchess, Matthew; you can drop the 'my lady'."

The lawyer shook his head. "No, I really can't. I can try to convince myself, but the 'Lady' just slips out, somehow."

"Well, try."

He raised an eyebrow. "Fine. L-Mary." His tongue tripped on the name.

"It's an improvement," she conceded, continuing to stroll towards home. "How are you getting used to Harvell and Carter? Is everything working out?"

"In a way," he matched her stride effortlessly, "I feel that they're taking things a bit easy on me, but there's nothing I can do about it, really. My work consists mainly of wills now, and there are only so many people who die."

"Speaking of wills, dying, and all that goes with them," Mary asked, "I have a few questions about the entail."

"You'd like to break it," he stated, without looking at her.

"I don't."

 _That_ stopped him. "You don't? I thought I was the unwelcome foreigner in your little circle of aristocracy. You're supposed to be dying to separate as much of your heritage from my grubby little middle-class palms." A trace of bitterness wove through his words, helping them cut into her like barbs.

She stopped and turned, incensed. "What gave you that idea?" If she had done anything to cause it, well, then she was obviously doing something wrong.

"Your mother, for one. Your grandmother, for another. And your father, for a third."

"I don't deny that Mama and Granny would like nothing better than to see you go back to Manchester," she admitted, "but would it help if I said that Papa and I wouldn't?"

Matthew smiled wryly. "Only a little," he said, looking up at the swallows swooping about overhead, as though he wished to join them. "Oh, Christ," he rubbed a hand across his tired face, "do you have any idea what it's like to be taken out of a life you knew, and bodily thrown into a life you never even dreamt you might have? And then to be expected to know all the rules…"

Mary remembered her reawakening on April 15th, after dying almost eighty years in the future. "Yes, in a way I do," she said slowly. But she realized that even then, she had been warned, and knew what to expect. Matthew, on the other hand… "but at the same time, it's nothing like yours. On some level, I know how all this must seem to you, all these rules, and seemingly pointless traditions and wastes. But on another, it's the way I was brought up. I think if I were tossed into your way of living, I'd be just as lost, if not even more so, as you are. Life without a lady's maid? I would certainly encounter difficulties!" For it was true that wherever she went, Anna had gone as well. Even Woodstock. _That,_ thought Mary had certainly been an interesting experience.

"Oh, about that," Matthew suddenly came out of his depression and looked at her through clear blue eyes. "Molesley. I haven't the faintest idea what to do with him."

Mary's heart gave a happy little thrill. She had always felt a little bad for Molesley, who had suffered so at the unwitting hands of Matthew. "Well, you have to remember that he considers it to be the highest of honors to be your valet―"

"My valet?"

She nearly laughed aloud at the look of confusion on his face. Good Lord, the boy had been lost! No wonder he'd had such a difficult time adjusting to their ways. "What did you think he was?" she couldn't help teasing him, "a fairy?"

"Well, I thought of him as a sort of butler who helps out as a valet once in a while. Add to that the fact that I've never had a valet before, and am dashed uncomfortable dressing with him just standing there in the corner like some statue…" he trailed off helplessly.

"You _must_ remember that Molesley takes tremendous pride in his job. You are regularly insulting him by refusing his services."

"But I don't _need_ ―"

"I don't care if you do or don't. It is your duty as future earl to provide employment―and for heaven's sake not to insult everyone you come across. If you aren't comfortable letting him dress you yet, start small. Let him pick out your cufflinks or something like that," she suggested.

"I supposed I can do that," he conceded. "But what did you mean, 'insult everyone I come across' I don't―"

"Poor Molesley. Mrs. Bird. Mr. Carson. Me, when we first met―Matthew, I'm sure you don't mean to," she explained patiently, "but you haven't exactly been a model of tact. What are you trying to prove? That you don't want to be one of us? I'm sorry, but you have no choice now. The _Titanic_ sunk, the other heirs are dead, and you are, I believe, the only person left who can inherit. So do us all a favor and do so gracefully."

Her speech had, unwittingly, become rather short-tempered by the end. Seeing the look on his face, she grimaced. "I'm sorry," she apologized, "I don't apologize often, you know. But―"

"Don't," he stopped her. "You don't need to apologize. I recognize that what you said was true, and believe it or not, I _am_ trying to do this as gracefully as I can."

"Then what…"

"I was just thinking how very much you sounded like your grandmother."

* * *

 _Well, dinner party and more straightening out of Matthew having been taken care of, on to the infamous Mr. Pamuk. I think I'm going to kill him. I'm not sure yet, but I think I'd be doing international diplomacy a favor if I just got rid of him then and there. He's not like Lavinia, to whom one is not opposed to "being happy elsewhere", in the words of Carson. No...we want him dead._

 _And on that cheerful note..._


	4. Chapter 4

_All right, everyone: this is the Pamuk chapter. I confess I'm a little nervous posting this, for a few reasons: A) I wrote this between 12:00 and 4:00 AM. B) I've never written anything quite like this. And C) I have absolutely no idea how to tie this into the rest of the story. I have a rough draft, yes, but I'm the kind of person who likes every single detail planned out...and I definitely don't, here._

 _But don't worry...Pamuk's definitely dead._

* * *

"Letter for you, Mary," Sybil sorted through the stack of mail that had been placed on the breakfast table. "And one for Edith...none for me, as per usual, and the rest is for Papa." She distributed the letters to their various intended recipients before taking her seat.

Mary―with a plate full of what she termed "adventurous foods" in front of her―looked at the return address and groaned inwardly. _Evelyn Napier_. How had she forgotten about him? More importantly, how had she forgotten about his _horrid_ friend? It made sense, really, seeing as that the last time she had heard from Napier had been―she calculated―seventy-nine years ago (early April) when she had apparently invited him to come for next week's hunt. He was writing to remind her that he would indeed be attending...and no mention of his friend here, she noted.

"Hear this," she looked up from the paper, "guess who's coming for the hunt next week?"

The Earl looked up from his perusal of the _Times_. "Please say it's not that awful Duke of Crowborough."

Mary remembered the Duke's visit that summer. She had done her best to ignore him, as previous experience had shown that he was only there for her inheritance. And, if memory served...and the gossip of the 1920's had been correct...a certain footman.

Mary shook her head, dismissing the thought and focussing on the letter in front of her. "No: it's Evelyn Napier."

Edith looked up from her eggs. "The Honourable Evelyn Napier, son and heir to Viscount Branksome."

"The same," Mary agreed, "Apparently, I wrote him last April, just after the hunt. He was so disappointed to have missed it that I invited him to this year's." _And very stupid that was of you, too_ , she added to herself. "With everything that's happened in the last eleven months, I must have forgotten. He writes that he'll be here next week for the Spring Hunt, and that…" she turned the letter over to continue reading, the words burning into her eyes, which began watering as she choked on a piece of mushroom. _Kemal Pamuk_.

"...he'll...he'd like to know if he can bring a friend."

"I don't see why not," Lord Grantham shrugged, "I trust Napier's taste in friends."

 _You may_ , thought Mary, _but I don't._

* * *

The day of the hunt dawned bright, and Mary woke up, feeling the slightly irrational urge to throw the covers back over her head and never to emerge from her cocoon of sheets.

A hand came to rest on her shoulder. "It's half past, milady. If you'd like to be ready in time for the hunt, now would be the time to get up."

"Anna," Mary peeked out at her maid, "what would you say if I said that I had a very, very bad feeling about today, and would prefer to stay in bed for the next twenty-four hours?"

"I would say that you're passin' up the chance to go hunting with a handsome gentleman, milady. And that would disappoint her Ladyship very greatly," Anna smiled.

"And Heaven forbid we disappoint her Ladyship," Mary sighed and threw back the covers, mentally preparing herself for the day to come.

* * *

Mary descended the main staircase, picking up her heavy black skirts to keep from tripping over them. Riding habits were fine when one was on a horse, but in every other situation, they were ridiculously impractical. Adjusting her top hat, she brushed the veil onto the brim, keeping it out of her face while she remained in the house. Trying to keep from chewing her lip, she came to the bottom of the stairs, looking around her. The main hall was full of servants and guests alike, and she could hear various snippets of conversations floating around her.

"...Now, Alfie―what was that you were saying? Your friend is ill _again_? I do wish that man would make up his mind whether…"

"...and I heard that Lady Smithers intends to…"

"Oh, it couldn't have! Surely, I thought Lucile would have more sense than that…"

"Sir Anthony, how lovely to see you here. I hoped you'd received my invitation…"

Ah, the British aristocracy. So self-absorbed, she thought, that it would take a war of epic proportions to get them to start thinking about something other than themselves. And for some of them, even that wouldn't be enough. And to think that _she_ had, and still did, count herself as one of them...

"Matthew, I was wondering if…"

Mary's head snapped in the direction of that conversation. Sure enough, a couple of meters to her left, stood her father and Matthew. And Matthew, it seemed, was wearing a riding habit―so he would be joining them for the hunt this time! Mary hurried over to the pair, brushing a piece of lint from her sleeve.

"Good morning, Cousin Matthew, Papa," she gave them a tight smile. "Are we ready to start yet?"

"Not yet, darling," her father looked towards the door with an impatient air, "we're still waiting for a few guests―most notably yours."

"They're not _my_ guests, Papa," she argued, knowing full well that they were, in fact.

"Oh, I beg your pardon; I seem to be suffering under the misapprehension that _you_ were the one who invited them," the Earl gave her a look she remembered from her youth, the kind that said, "really, darling. Try harder than _that_ to convince me."

So she did. "If we're going to be technical about it all, I invited Evelyn Napier, and that was last April. _He_ invited his friend."

"And who is this friend, by the way?" Matthew asked, joining the conversation.

"Kemal Pamuk," she tried not to choke on the name, "he's some sort of Turkish diplomat or other. He was in London to negotiate a treaty, and Evelyn wanted to show him some English hospitality."

Matthew nodded. "Well, he had better be careful. If he takes a tumble, we'll be endangering world peace," he laughed quietly at his joke.

Mary smile blandly. "We'll see. It might depend on the sort of tumble."

Before Matthew could discern her meaning, Carson sidled up to the Earl, who was watching the exchange with interest. "Milord, all the guests are assembled; the hunt is ready to begin."

* * *

"Really," Evelyn Napier said to Mary, trying to keep his mare from becoming too antsy, "We were fools not to accept your mother's invitation and send the horses down early. As it is, my groom only got here an hour or two ago and my mount's as jumpy as a deb at her first ball."

Mary smiled at him, not really hearing him. "What about Mr. Pamuk? I gather if he takes a tumble, you will be endangering world peace," she unconsciously copied Matthew's joke from earlier.

Evelyn shook his head. "Don't worry about Kemal. He knows what he's doing on a horse."

"Well, where is he?"

Mary caught a slightly suppressed eye-roll from her companion. "Fussing. He's rather a dandy."

Mary turned Diamond around, and as a result got her first glimpse of Kemal Pamuk a bit earlier than she had the first time around. Her stomach balled into a tight knot as memories and emotions flooded back.

Smooth as you please, Kemal Pamuk rode―no, _glided_ ―to a stop beside her. "Lady Mary Crawley, I presume?" He doffed his hat, revealing perfectly coiffed waves of dark hair.

"You presume right," Mary gave him her best "don't you dare even _think_ about messing with me" smile. _This piece of vermin had dared proposition her, and here he was, ready to do it all over again._

Blissfully ignorant of her thoughts, Pamuk gave her as rakish a smile as he had ever bestowed on a lady...term loosely used, of course...and pulled on the reins in an attempt to settle his horse. "Sorry to be so dishevelled. We've been on a train since dawn and we had to change in a shed."

Mary gave him the fakest smile she had ever bestowed on anyone in one hundred years of life. "You don't look dishevelled to me." _Actually, you look rather like you've been preening in a shed for just over an hour._

"I beg your pardon, I don't think I caught that last one," Pamuk leaned forward to move in closer.

The cry of the hunting horn rent the air, causing the dogs milling around them to take off. _Saved by the bell_ , thought Mary. She followed the dogs, leaving two―no, three―men looking after her.

* * *

Mary took a shortcut through a wooded thicket, watching the rest of the hunting party take the bridge. She would rejoin them at the next bend, but for now, she was happy to have some time alone.

"Avoiding the hunt?"

Had it not been for the double pommel of her side saddle, Mary was quite certain she would have fallen off. Behind her, and a bit to the left, was Mr. Pamuk.

"Not at all. I was taking a shortcut," she informed him. "I hope the day is living up to your expectations," she continued, surreptitiously edging her horse away from his.

Pamuk's eyes took on a glint that could only be described as lecherous. "It is exceeding them in every way."

"How nice for you," Mary said, careful to keep her voice devoid of emotion. "And where is Mr. Napier?"

"He's gone over the bridge," Pamuk pointed towards the last of the hunting party, "look."

Mary looked, seeing the red and black coats disappear over the bridge, taking her hopes of salvation with them. "Ah."

Pamuk's gaze became probing. "And what about you? Will you follow him? Or will you come over the jump with me?" he nodded to the wooden construction with a deep mud puddle on the far side.

An idea formed in Mary's mind. It was slightly evil, to be sure...but it was beautiful in its simplicity. "Neither, actually," she gave him her haughtiest look, "I find I prefer to go it alone. It's more...invigorating...that way." With one last look over her shoulder, she turned Diamond and spurred her towards the jump, leaping over it before landing neatly on the other side, sending a wave of mud sailing towards her pursuer.

Blinking mud out of his eye, Kemal Pamuk saw Diamond's tail swish before disappearing around the bed.

Smiling, he spurred his own mount towards the jump, flying over it in pursuit of his latest conquest.

He was going to enjoy this.

* * *

Mary rejoined the hunting party, still breathing heavily from her recent escapade. Seeking refuge in the safety of numbers, she pushed her way further into the middle of the group, her black riding habit giving her some anonymity.

"Everything alright?" Matthew pulled up beside her, keeping his seat far better than she remembered him ever having been able to. "We thought we'd lost you for a moment."

"Everything's fine," she nodded, adding, "for now."

* * *

After dinner, the gentlemen retired to drink port, smoke, and do whatever else society had decided was inappropriate for them to engage in while in the presence of females. The ladies, meanwhile, retired to the drawing room to take tea and―in the case of Isobel and the Dowager Countess―argue.

"But why? I should far prefer to be a maid in a large and pleasant house than work from dawn till dusk in a cramped and gloomy office," Lady Violet stated as though her opinion were universal. "Don't you agree?"

Lady Grantham nodded, "It matters that the people who live and work here are content."

"Yes, but if Gwen wants to improve her life," Sybil joined in, "We should be helping her if that's what she wants."

"I agree, " Isobel poured herself another cup, looking pointedly at the matriarch, "Surely we must all encourage those less fortunate to improve their lot where they can."

"Not if it isn't in their best interests!" The Dowager shot back.

The doors to the drawing room opened, admitting the gentlemen.

Edith tried to draw Pamuk in. "What do you say, Mr. Pamuk? Should our housemaid be kept enslaved or forced out into the world?"

The diplomat laughed softly, mockingly. "Why are you English so curious about other people's lives? If she wishes to leave, and the law permits it, then let her go."

The Dowager fixed him with her trademark frosty look. "But perhaps the law should not permit it, for the common good."

Isobel latched onto that with the speed and agility of a terrier. "So, you hanker for the days of serfdom."

"Such a vulgar term, that," Lady Violet dabbed her lips daintily with a lace handkerchief. "I prefer to say that I hanker for a simpler world."

A loud thunderclap sounded outside, followed by torrents of rain. The Earl looked out the windows, which already had rivulets of water running down them. "Well, then. Cousin Matthew, Cousin Isobel, I think I speak for everyone here when I say that you are welcome to spend the night."

Matthew frowned. "We―"

"―would be delighted to accept your invitation, Cousin Robert," his mother interrupted him, completing his sentence for him, in the opposite manner than he had intended. "We should hate to make Taylor drive in such weather."

"We've gotten a new chaufer, actually," the Earl informed her. "Just a few days ago. He's an Irishman by the name of Branson. He's a good deal younger and hardier than Taylor was, but I agree with you―I should hate to make him drive in this storm."

He turned to his guests. "And how was the hunt? Mr. Napier, I heard you had a tremendous run."

Evelyn chuckled. "Like something out of a trollop novel."

"And you, Mr. Pamuk?" the Countess turned to their infinitely more exotic guest, "Was your day successful?"

"I can hardly remember a better one."

The lilt in his voice caused both Mary and Matthew to stare at his bold tone. Surreptitiously, Mary pulled her cousin aside.

"Cousin Matthew, I was wondering if you could do me a favor."

"If I can…"

She nodded. "This should be within your powers. If you see Mr. Pamuk corner me tonight, would you be so kind as to…"

"Rescue you?"

"If you must put it that way," she rolled her eyes, "then yes. Please _rescue_ me."

* * *

He was pressed into action soon enough. Shortly after their conversation on the sidelines, Matthew saw Pamuk follow Mary out of the drawing room and into the small gallery. Without making himself too obvious, he followed them, arriving just in time to hear Mary say,

"...and this one shows the story of Andromeda. Do you know it?"

"I am afraid I do not, Mary."

The gall of the man―using her Christian name! He stepped farther into the gallery, following their voices.

"Her father was King Cepheus, whose country was being ravaged by storms, and in the end," Mary's voice was taking on a decidedly forced quality now, "he decided the only way to appease the gods was to sacrifice his eldest daughter to a hideous sea monster. So, they chained her naked to a rock…"

Matthew spoke up. "But the sea monster didn't get her, did he?"

Mary turned on her heel, relief blooming across her face. "No. Just when it seemed he was the only solution to her father's problems, she was rescued."

"By Perseus," Matthew added, unable to help himself, "son of a god."

"That's right," Mary grinned, probably the first time he had seen her face take that particular expression, and took his arm, allowing him to escort her out of the gallery, "Who wants an old sea monster when they can have Perseus?"

* * *

Mary hummed contentedly to herself that night as she let down her hair for bed. She was quite certain that her little Perseus diversion had been enough to keep Pamuk away for good. And _goodness_ , that had been satisfying, although if Matthew hadn't appeared at exactly the right moment…

She shuddered. God knows what might have happened.

She slipped the warming pan from between her sheets, having sent Anna to bed early. She was, after all, entirely capable of surviving without a lady's maid now...she just enjoyed having one.

A soft knock sounded at her door. Assuming it was Anna, come to check on her even if it meant disobeying orders, she called softly for her to enter.

It was _not_ Anna.

It was Kemal Pamuk.

Mary nearly dropped the warming pan. "You must be mad!" she hissed.

"I am. I am in the grip of madness," he came nearer, and she gripped the handle of the bed warmer with all her might.

"After all I did to discourage you today? Do you _truly_ think that I would―"

"Come, now. I know when a lady is playing hard to get, Mary. And you certainly were."

"Mr. Pamuk," she warned him, "if you dare take one step closer, I shall not be responsible for my actions."

He smiled. "That's what I was hoping to hear." And stepped closer.

Close enough. With a swift jerk, the warming pan flew upwards and connected with his groin, making a resounding _clang_.

Pamuk dropped like a stone. Mary watched him lie on the ground, twitching slightly, and pressed the business end of the bed warmer into the small of his back. "Hear me, and hear me well," she dropped her voice to a dangerous level. "When a lady says no, she means _no_. Not _yes_ , you unenlightened, chauvinistic, sexist bastard."

He had stopped twitching now, she noticed. She gave him an experimental prod with with pan and realized, with a sickening feeling of dread pooling in her stomach, that he was actually quite still. Unnaturally so. Dropping to her knees beside him, she touched two fingers to the side of his neck. Nothing.

Oh. God. She'd killed him.

Mary flew from her room, towards the servant's hall, as fast as her feet could take her. Funny how different navigating the Abbey could be at night. Shadows masked corners and recesses, and in her haste to find Anna, she crashed straight into Matthew.

"What in Hell― _Mary?_ "

"He's dead. I think he's dead. No, I'm sure he's dead." She spouted what was certainly gibberish to his ears.

"Who's dead?"

She was shaking now, her teeth chattering as she tried to force coherent words past her lips. "P-Pa-Pamuk."

"But he was alive at dinner!"

Mary stared up into his face, her eyes going wider and wider. "Well, now he's not. He's in my room, and he's definitely dead."

Matthew pushed her towards the staircase, making her sit on the lower steps. "Try to give the facts. Kemal Pamuk is dead. In your room. And why…"

"Because I killed him."

Matthew's knees gave out, and he joined her on the stairs. "I was actually going to ask you why he was in your room, but I don't think that's even relevant now."

The two pajama-clad figures sat on the stairs, staring straight ahead. After a few moments, Mary spoke up. "If he's discovered in my room, I'll be ruined. A social pariah. I was on my way to find Anna, to see if she could help me move him, but…" she trailed off again.

"We've got to get him back to his room," Matthew stood up. "I honestly don't know what on God's green Earth is happening here, but I think moving him should be done sooner rather than later."

* * *

The two stood over the prostrate form of Kemal Pamuk, looking down on him.

"How did this…?" Matthew looked down at this man, who somehow looked less impressive in death.

Mary perched on the edge of her bed, tucking up her legs. "He knocked, I thought I was Anna, and I let him in. Then, he…" she heaved a breath, trying to continue.

"Oh, Mary," Matthew looked horrified. "He didn't force himself on you, did he?"

She was silent, and he decided to let it rest for now. "We can discuss this later. Come on," he moved to the other side of the body, "you can take the feet."

* * *

There was something slightly farcical, thought Mary, about the fact that the man who had been her husband in her previous life was helping her carry the dead body of the man who had been her lover in that previous life, through a darkened house in the middle of the night. Had she been a bystander, she might have laughed. Instead, she gripped the cold feet even more firmly, having learned once before that dead bodies made a terrific noise when dropped.

"And to think," she heard Matthew mutter, "that all this came about because I was going to the kitchens for a cup of cocoa."

"Granny would tell you that's very middle-class," she whispered, turning a corner carefully to avoid bumping into anything.

"Mary. I am helping you carry a dead body from one end of the house to the other. Please don't tell me what's middle-class or not." His voice was firm, brooking no refusal.

Looking up, she met the eyes of Matthew. Not Matthew Crawley, the prat of a lawyer and unwilling heir to the title, not the shell-shocked soldier, but Matthew Crawley, her husband who would help her carry a dead body from one end of the house to the other, even if he hadn't known her for longer than six months.

"So what exactly happened?" Matthew set a pot of milk on the stove and stirred in a generous amount of sugar and cacao powder.

Mary rested her head in her arms, her voice coming out slightly muffled against Mrs. Patmore's table. "I already told you that Pamuk came and tried...to force himself on me."

Matthew nodded, realizing too late that she couldn't see him. "Yes."

"Well, I warned him not to come closer, and then he did. I was holding my warming pan, and when he came close enough, I hit him with it." She looked up when he put an enamel mug of hot cocoa in front of her.

"It's not the finest porcelain, milady," he teased her, "but it serves its purpose. Please continue. Where, exactly, did you hit him? I didn't see any marks." He sat across the table, cradling his own mug in his hands.

Mary held her hand over her eyes in embarrassment. "In the...well, the…" she waved her hands euphemistically, "general nether regions?" She quickly hid her head in her arms again, until she heard him snort. She peeked over her arms. Was he _laughing?_

"Matthew," she said severely, "I do not see what you find so amusing."

He took a careful sip from his mug. "Mary, a man does not die, just from being hit in the 'nether regions', as you put it. Trust me."

"Well, _he_ did! He went all twitchy, and then he just..." she moaned softly, mumbling into her mug. "I can't believe it did it again."

Matthew disregarded this as shock-induced nonsense. "He probably had a stroke or something afterwards. If it makes you feel any better," he smiled with a hint of steel, "it was a merciful death compared to what I would have chosen for him."

He looked into her mug, seeing that it was only halfway consumed. "Drink up, then we'll go to bed and not speak of this again."

With shaking hands, Mary picked up her mug and downed it. Matthew took the cups, rinsing them and placing them on the drying board. Silently, they made their way back upstairs, into the main hall, and up the main staircase. At the top, Mary put her hand on Matthew's arm, staying him before they separated.

Looking up at him, she smiled faintly, realizing that there was no one else in this house with whom she would have rather carried that body.

"Thank you, Perseus."

* * *

 _Oooookay...and now Pamuk's dead, and we've lost a major plot point for the entire first three seasons :) I'll have to make up some drama of my own, I guess._

 _Going back to point B in the upstairs notes, this is the first time I've used "language" of a less-than-tame sort in a story...and I toyed with the idea of bumping up the rating a notch. But it's just one instance, and so I decided to leave it as-is. I also chopped off the last page or so of this chapter and turned it into the first paragraph for the next one...because at that point it was 4:30 in the morning, I was seriously sleep-deprived, and would not have been responsible for the words that my fingers typed up._

 _On the whole, though, I like the way I dealt with Pamuk...there was pain, he got a talking to of sorts-and most importantly, he died._


	5. Chapter 5

_Oh, goodness...it's been an embarrassingly long time since my last update on this story. But it's a matter of honor with me not to leave a story unfinished, and I had this chapter mostly written. You deserved an update, and here it is…._

* * *

They were loading the body into the hearse when Mary came down the next―or was it later that same morning? It didn't matter, not now that she was a murderess. Already, she was having visions of herself being carted off to gaol, much as Bates had been.

The only difference here was that Bates had been proved innocent. Mary was decidedly _not_.

She watched from the upstairs window as the doors were shut with a resounding _clang_ , and the motor drove away from the entrance.

 _God, Mary. You've really done it this time._ She sat down in the wide casement, watching the black car get smaller the further it got from the Abbey. She rested her head in her hands, welcoming the brief respite from the world. And to think that it was only eight in the morning…

"What am I going to do?" she mumbled into her hands. Truly, this was worse than before. Last time, there had been a possibility that she had not been at fault―but this time…

"I'll tell you what you'll do," Mary reared back, her eyes slowly traveling up the pair of twill-clad legs and chest before meeting the blue eyes that bored into hers, some two feet above her head. "You're going to forget about this, about Pamuk, and our―" Matthew shook his head as though to clear it, "our friendship. If it can be called that, as most of it seems to be based in my saving you from a Turkish diplomat, and later helping you carry the body of that same Turk through the house."

Mary felt grief, pure and gut-wrenching, tear through her. And just when she'd thought that something good come of this―everything was turning out worse than before. Hadn't she been sent back to make things right? She'd made everything _wrong_ instead!

She watched helplessly as Matthew continued his tirade, his words cutting into her as though they were being screamed, although they barely made it louder than a whisper.

"I'm leaving Downton. I'm going to do as your grandmother asks, try to break the entail, and go back to the middle-class life I know. After today, I want nothing to do with your ridiculous machinations and murders. I thought I could survive in your world, but it's obvious that I can't. You can take Downton and all that it comes with, and welcome. Good-bye, Mary."

With that, he turned on his heel and marched down the hall, down the stairs, out the door, and out of her life. She watched him walk down the gravel path, following the route taken by the hearse, and wondered, not for the first time, why the bloody, buggering, bollocking _Hell_ she was here, ruining events that had been quite awful enough in the first place. What lesson was she supposed to be learning? And what was she supposed to set right? So far, everything had ended in disaster.

And she could uncheck that item off her list now, the one that had caused her so much joy: Matthew Crawley was no longer her friend.

* * *

Two figures stood behind the stables, their faces hidden in the shadows thrown by the overhanging roof. Clouds of cigarette smoke hung about them, the wisps seeming to hover in the air indefinitely before dissipating.

The skirted figure blew out another cloud of smoke before turning to her companion.

"So you don't know if he went back to his own room?"

"Yes, I do, 'cause I was the one who found him there the next day," he replied, lighting another cigarette with the stub of his old one.

The eye-roll she gave him was nearly audible. "What I mean is, you don't know if he went back under his own steam."

He shrugged. "Suppose not, but how else would he a' done it?" He squinted at her through the smoke.

"That's what they call 'the big question'."

He looked at her, his pale eyes boring into her. "I don't want to get in any trouble over this."

She chuckled humorlessly, her brogue becoming more evident now. "Don't worry. You won't. Your secret's safe with me."

Stubbing out their cigarettes, each went their own way, he to wind up the clocks, she to iron a dress her ladyship would be wearing that evening.

All that was left was a cloud of quickly dispersing smoke, and the heaviness of secrets and speculation.

* * *

Mary descended the staircase, wiping her eyes.

"I assume you've heard what's happened?" Evelyn Napier stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up at her with concern.

 _Heard what?_ "Oh―yes." She tried to appear as though she had not spent the past five minutes sitting in a window as she felt her world crumble to bits about her.

"Terrible thing," he added, "awful. Ghastly for your parents. I don't suppose I shall ever make it up to them."

Mary hitched up what she sincerely hoped was a smile but felt an awful lot like a grimace. "It wasn't your fault." _Trust me on that account. You had absolutely nothing to do with it._

Evelyn shrugged. "Well, I brought him here. If it isn't my fault, whose is it?" His kind eyes took her in, from her rumpled clothing to her reddened eyes. "I was going to ask you to show me the gardens, but I think I'll leave you alone." He turned to go, walked a few steps, and turned back. "I am so sorry about all this. I've told your father I'll deal with the embassy. There won't be any more annoyance for you."

"Thank you." _And I mean that, Evelyn Napier, from the bottom of my heart._

* * *

Evelyn's promise held, and there was no more trouble for the Crawleys after Pamuk's death. The body was cremated, and the ashes taken to Turkey to be mourned and buried properly. Mary, however, experienced a change that could only have been described as startling. Gone was the hundred-year-old soul with the indomitable spirit, back was the twenty-four year old woman whose toy had been taken away. She reverted to moodiness, cloistering herself in her room, reading the financials while taking copious notes in a book that she kept locked in her desk. She took her meals on a tray in her room, appearing at family functions only when necessary. Her comments became increasingly sarcastic, increasingly acidic, until it was only Anna who would willingly spend time with her. Mary had marooned herself on an island of solitude, and it didn't seem that she was getting off anytime soon.

She also experienced an alarming inward change: memory loss. Not of the past, but of the future. Simple, historical events, such as the Hindenburg, the end of the Second World War, and Woodstock, were beginning to slip her mind.

One day, after being unable to recall the exact date of the Wall Street Crash, Mary had had enough. Selecting another notebook, she began scribbling down dates, names, places―and realized that if she wanted to do anything to change her father's sour investments, the time to act would soon be over.

"Papa," she announced as she came into the Library, "I'd like to speak to you."

The Earl looked up from his desk, and turned to his eldest daughter, noticing how the last months had changed her: her face had become drawn, her eyes had lost their sparkle, and there was an aura of depression surrounding her. "Yes?"

"Are you planning on making any investments soon?" she asked bluntly.

 _How had she known?_ "I have talked it over with Murray," he admitted cautiously.

"Well, don't make them." It burst out of her more forcefully than she would have liked, but she continued on, drawing a hasty breath. This conversation could end in one of two ways: she could save Downton, or she could be locked up in an asylum. Really, what did she have to lose? "Don't invest in the Grand Trunk Railways. They're going to go bust in less than a decade, I can assure you. And―"

"Why are you so certain of this?" Lord Grantham's eyes were flinty. And honestly, she couldn't blame him. If a child of hers had started raving about investments hat she hadn't made yet―or even told anyone about―and saying they would go bust, she, too, would have worried at least a little for that child's sanity.

"I've―" she blinked, casting about for a plausible story, "been reading the financials for some time, and the railway is following the same pattern as several other companies that went bust."

She had, in fact, been doing no such thing. And she could tell that her father was well aware of this. In a last desperate bid, she gripped his arm in an unusually physical action for her, and threw all caution to the wind. "Papa, there's going to be a war in Europe. If not now, then soon. You know this as well as I do―all it needs is a catalyst. When this war comes, England is sure to be involved. And the world won't be the same afterwards―estates like Downton will fall if precautionary measures aren't taken. Instead of investing in some railway that's going to go bust in a few years' time, invest in Downton instead. Make sure it can last, and remain as strong as ever. Papa, please…" she wasn't used to begging―she considered it beneath her. But she gripped his arm with all her might, her large, dark eyes pleading with him to hear her, _listen_ to her.

Perhaps it was the words. Perhaps it was the absolute conviction with which she said them. Or perhaps it was that the Earl somehow knew that his daughter was speaking the truth, strange as it seemed. "Very well," he announced. "I won't invest in the railway―God knows how you found out I was planning to, as I haven't told anyone but Murray." He turned to look at her, his blue eyes boring into her brown ones, "And I will consider what you said about investing in Downton. I'll have to talk it over with Murray; but I'll also discuss it with Matthew, as he is the heir. It will give me an excuse to summon him here, as we haven't seen him in months. If both of them agree, then we will proceed with your plan, Mary. And because it was your idea, you will participate in this―you are quite shrewd, my dear, and had you been my son…" he shook his head, "well, suffice it to say that you might already be managing part of the estate."

Mary felt as though she were fighting her way through a fog. Her father...was agreeing to this? Without a fight? She had expected to have to do battle royale with him, calling on Granny if necessary, but here he was, _agreeing_ to her plan...which, admittedly, had been Matthew's in the first place.

"And, my dear," her father added, "I should add that if we do go through with this, the majority of this will fall on you and Matthew. So I would greatly appreciate it if arguments could be kept to a minimum. As your mother would remind me, 'A house divided cannot stand.'"

* * *

It was July by the time Matthew came back to Downton at the Earl's request. The house was in high gear in preparation for his arrival, and the usual double row of servants flanked the entrance when the car that had been sent to fetch him from the station pulled up.

Mary stood with her family, slightly behind her sisters, her eyes firmly fixed on the black curls that cascaded down Sybil's back. She had awaited this moment with trepidation, but also with a small amount of excitement. However, she did not want to look up, and see the expression of revulsion in his eyes.

She could hear him coming closer, the gravel crunching underneath his shoes.

"Hello, my boy," the Earl greeted him, "good to have you back. We thought you'd abandoned us."

She heard her mother kiss him on the cheek. How American of her. "Hello, Cousin Matthew. I've had Mrs. Patmore prepare raspberry tarts for dessert this evening―you're fond of them, aren't you?"

"Terribly fond of them, I'm afraid. Hello, Cousin Edith, Cousin Sybil."

And now it was her turn. She kept her eyes down, and saw Sybil's skirts―only recently let down, in preparation for her upcoming Season―move, now replaced by a set of brown shoes she knew all too well. They were a rather horrid pair, one Matthew had worn for years, firmly refusing to throw them out...no matter how hard Mary had tried to convince him to.

Here eyes slowly traveled up the length of cotton-trousered legs, up the row of buttons on his shirt, snagged on the slightly crooked tie―a hallmark of his when he refused the services of a valet―before meeting his blue eyes.

The revulsion she'd expected, the barely disguised contempt―it wasn't there. In its place was something else, that could only be described as guarded forgiveness. After one hundred years, Mary had become rather adept at reading people, and Matthew had the look of a man who regretted some choices he had made.

"Cousin Matthew," God, that sounded stiff. She added a smile to spruce it up a bit...and ended up feeling like a grimace.

"Cousin Mary," his eyes still held that regretful look. "It's good to see you."

"And you," she said quietly, meaning it.

Perhaps...perhaps it would be possible to start anew.

Third time _was_ the charm, after all.

* * *

"So, Matthew, I think I explained the bare bones of this scheme in my letter," Robert said as he poured whiskey into two crystal tumblers, handing one to Matthew before taking a healthy sip of his. "Mary thinks that Downton will be headed for disaster if something isn't done soon. I trust her, of course, but I can't help wondering if she might not be overreacting slightly. She's been rather reclusive lately, and while I can see the merits of her idea, it would be simpler to invest in the railway and reap the benefits later on. There is no need for Downton to lower itself―"

"She's right, though," Matthew was loathe to say it, but he did agree with Mary. "Times are changing, Cousin Robert. Someday, Downton may need to produce something with market value."

"It does, though―jobs for the people who live around it!"

"And if they decide they'd like to work elsewhere?" Matthew quirked an eyebrow.

A slightly confused look spread over the Earl's face. "Why would they? It's an honor to work for―"

Matthew fought the twin urges to laugh madly and snort in derision. "Pardon me this impertinence, Cousin Robert," he said in his best diplomatic arbitrator's voice, "but I don't think there are many people who would consider carrying your bathwater to be an honor."

Robert, Earl of Grantham, went puce. "How could―but―" he spluttered, before settling on, "they're well paid!"

"Are they, though?" Matthew settled himself comfortably on the sofa, nursing his whiskey. "When you wrote me of Mary's idea, I took the liberty of visiting Murray to look over the accounts with him. And what I found," he said, "was most disconcerting. The expenses for Downton keep going up, but the income is, if anything, decreasing. You haven't given your servants a raise in years―is it a wonder that there is such a high turnover of maids? Something isn't being done right― _hasn't_ been done right in years, decades maybe. This estate will have to begin generating its own income, or else it will be nothing but a crumbling pile of rocks before long."

"Is that what you see?" the Earl asked quietly. " _You see a million bricks that may crumble, a thousand gutters and pipes that may block and leak, and stone that will crack in the fros_ t...but I don't. _It's my life's work."_

"Love is blind," quoted Matthew. "I know you don't want to hear this, but I agree with Mary. Times will change, and _are_ changing as we speak. If Downton doesn't change with them, it will fall."

"Fine." Iron entered the Earl's voice. "Do as you think best. But I'll have you know that this will be yours and Mary's undertaking, and that I will have as little to do with it as possible."

* * *

When Matthew left the Library after his conversation with Robert, Mary was waiting for him.

"He spoke to you about the plan?" she asked, stepping closer, into the puddle of light from the wall sconce.

"Yes, and I think he wishes I hadn't agreed to it," a corner of Matthew's mouth quirked up. "He informed me that he was washing his hands of this undertaking, and that it would be solely our responsibility."

Mary felt her shoulders slump in relief. "I was afraid he'd want to be in charge of it, actually. And the problem is that along with Downton, Papa inherited my grandfather's abysmal money managing skills. Do you know why he married my mother?"

Matthew leaned against the wall, allowing himself to relax. "Why do I get the feeling that 'eternal and undying love' is not the answer?"

"Because it isn't," Mary said simply. "The aristocracy marry for two reasons: money and land. Sometimes to combine bloodlines, too, but since they're also connected to money and land…" she trailed off, realizing that she had once again become very comfortable around him.

"Well, 'I am determined that nothing but the deepest love could ever induce me into matrimony.'" Matthew quoted.

Mary looked at him curiously. "I didn't know you read Jane Austen!" And she had been married to him, after all.

"I don't." he shook his head, "but my mother does. And when your mother reads _Pride and Prejudice_ to you as a bedtime story when you're little, you inevitably pick some of it up. Now, Lady Mary," he ignored her eye roll at the honorific, and proffered his arm, "shall we save Downton?"

* * *

 _So concludes this chapter of the story. Don't worry, it shall continue - I'm hoping the next gap between updates won't be of the five-month variety. I need to explain a few things, among them Matthew's change of heart, and the plan to save Downton. That should provide enough fodder for at least one chapter, I think._

 _Now, I am going to ask you for your help: are there any scenarios you'd love to see incorporated into this story? Any historical events Mary ought to have attended, that will influence her decisions in this universe? Let me know!_


	6. Chapter 6

_Murphy's law states that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. This chapter is proof of that. I had it finished about three months ago (excuses, Anne, excuses), but when I uploaded it to the Doc Manager, it re_ _fused to save. And then it wouldn't let me add those lovely little lines. And then I pressed Ctrl+W. Accidentally. Three times. So I gave up until midnight today, at which point I decided that you deserved another installment, and that I had no business making you wait when there was a perfectly good chapter just sitting in the Doc Manager._

 _So yes, this chapter has had some challenges getting out into the world...but it's here now, and I hope you'll at least temporarily forgive me (until my next six-month absence, that is)._

* * *

 _Meet me at the bottom of the drive in half an hour. Bring a sandwich and sweets, and wear good shoes._

 _M._

Mary looked at the slip of paper that had been handed to her by one of the footmen. Rather cryptic―she had to confess she had absolutely no idea what Matthew wanted.

"Only one way to find out, I suppose," she folded the paper and slipped it into her pocket. Coming around a corner, she nearly walked straight into Daisy, who leapt out of her way.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," Mary managed, holding on to the wall to avoid falling over. Looking at Daisy, she realized the poor girl was trembling like a leaf. "Nothing bruised or broken, I hope?" She smiled at her.

Daisy shook her head. "No, milady. Nothin'." She was still looking rather like a terrified rabbit, thought Mary.

"Well, then," she cast about for something to say, finding herself at a rare loss for words, "I suppose there's no harm done." Remembering the note in her pocket, she put out a hand to keep Daisy from scampering away. "Daisy, I was just looking for someone to go find Mrs. Patmore for me. Could you―"

"Yes, milady."

"Good. Could you tell her I need a sandwich and a bag of sweets, please? Tell her I'll come collect them in twenty minutes or so."

Try as she might to conceal her surprise, Daisy still looked at her as though she'd grown a second head. "She could also send them up with a footman, milady."

Mary shook her head. "No, it's perfectly all right―I'll collect them myself." Turning away, she looked over her shoulder. "Thank you, Daisy."

Daisy looked after her, her mouth slightly open. A please _and_ thank you from _Lady Mary_? Pigs might as well fly.

* * *

"Anna, do I have any walking shoes?" Mary asked the moment her maid came through the door of her room.

After a moment of thought, Anna opened the large wardrobe, crouching in front of it to better examine the pairs of shoes on its floor. Finally, after a careful perusal, she straightened, shaking her head.

"No, milady. What do you need them for, if you don't mind my―"

"I don't mind, and I do believe I told you to drop the 'milady', Anna," she dug the note out of her pocket and handed it to her. "This is the reason I need walking shoes."

Anna tried to suppress a giggle, failing rather spectacularly in the process.

Mary sighed. "Out with it. Is there any reason my being asked to go walking is the cause for so much hilarity?"

"No, milady―" was that girl ever going to drop the 'milady'? Probably not, thought Mary, and gave up "―but Mrs. Patmore was nearly going mad in the kitchen, wonderin' what it was you needed a sandwich and a bag of sweets for."

Mary could see how that might confuse someone. But right now, she needed shoes. "And what about my footwear, Anna? It would seem that I have nothing suitable, seeing as my life to date has been dinner parties and balls, with the occasional hunt thrown in."

"You can borrow mine, milady," Anna stood up and opened the door. "I'll just go fetch them from my room." With that, she was gone, leaving Mary alone.

Looking out the window, she saw clouds gathering on the horizon. But over Downton, the sky was still blue, and the clouds didn't look particularly dangerous. If they were, her arthritis would be making itself known again.

It was funny, thought Mary, how her old life and her new one had decided to interweave. She had a young body that was used to the rigors of constant corsetry, but could swear she felt the twinge of arthritis when it was going to rain.

And as she wasn't feeling any twinge, it was not going to rain―and therefore no cause to worry.

A quick knock on the door, and Anna reappeared, carrying what for all intents and purposes looked like a pair of hobnailed boots. Mary took them with the tips of her fingers, examining them before lacing them onto her feet. Well, at least they were clean. And they certainly beat what Americans called "sneakers". Mary could never understand what possessed people to buy those shoes―her great-niece among them. Although Emma claimed that they were mostly for comfort while...what was it she called it?― _Exercising_. Heavens above, what was the world coming to, if a woman willingly perspired? How nice that she didn't have to worry about all that yet.

"Milady?" Anna's voice brought her back from the future. "The shoes―how do they feel?"

Mary took a few steps towards the mirror. "Unlike anything I've ever worn," she gave herself a cursory look in the mirror before turning towards the door. "Yes, I think these will do quite nicely. Thank you, Anna."

So it was true what Daisy had said, thought Anna―Lady Mary was starting to develop manners. At age twenty-four, it was about time.

* * *

At the appointed time, Mary crunched her way down the gravel drive toward the figure at the gate. When he noticed her, Matthew lifted a hand in greeting.

"Good morning. I see you have your sandwich."

She stopped, careful to maintain a few feet of distance between them. "Good morning. You should have seen the look on the servants' faces when I went downstairs. Apparently, I don't go there much. And the look on Mrs. Patmore's face―what do I need a bag of sweets for, anyways?"

He grinned. "All will be revealed in good time, I assure you. Now, let us put those walking shoes to good use."

"Where are we going, Matthew?"

The road before them ended in a T, and Matthew stopped, looking lost. "Honestly, I have no idea. I wanted to go on a tour of the cottages with you, seeing as we need to get to know this estate if we want to save it―but I confess I have no idea where to start."

Mary raised an eyebrow. "Where to _go_ , you mean."

"Yes, that too."

"All that you need to know," she pointed to the right, "is that if you go that way, you will come out there." She pointed to the left. "That is, if the road still goes the way I remember it."

"You live here. Don't you remember how to get around?" Matthew raised an eyebrow as they started off towards the right.

Mary grimaced. "Honestly, no. The last time I walked the estate―or part of it―was in…" _1963_ , her brain supplied. "Quite some time ago," she told him.

They walked in silence for some time, until the first cottage appeared on their right. Pulling a paper out of his pocket, Matthew ran his finger down the list on it. "This cottage would belong to a Mr. Williamson."

Mary had a vague memory of a man who drove a hay cart, but since that description could have fit just about any farmer, that wasn't particularly helpful.

Mr. Williamson turned out to be a slightly portly man in his late forties, with a brood of children between the ages of two and ten.

"And this," Matthew muttered to her as they were swamped by the children, "is why I told you to bring the bag of sweets."

Once the sweets had been dispensed, questions had been asked, and Matthew was asking Mr. Williamson about a detail she didn't quite understand, Mary felt a tug on the back of her skirt. One of the younger children, towheaded and barefoot, held out her arms to be picked up. Mary obliged, and soon enough had one child on her hip, and several more became bold enough to come closer.

The one on her hip (clearly the bravest, thought Mary) spoke up. "Can you tell us a story, Lady Mary?"

Mrs. Williamson looked up from the stove, where it seemed to Mary that she was testing the theory that a watched pot never boiled, ready to scold her daughter for her impudence. "Eh now, Lottie―Lady Mary has better things to do than go tellin' ye silly stories!"

Mary shook her head. "Really, it's no trouble at all, I assure you." She settled herself in the one armchair with the girl on her lap, and a flock of children settling around her like sparrows finding breadcrumbs.

And then she realized she couldn't think of a single story. After racking her brain for what felt like a good five minutes, she hit upon a film Emma had taken her to see when it had first come out...in 1976, she thought. Or was it 1977? Well, the date didn't matter―it was the story that counted. Abridged, of course. And edited to suit the time.

"A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, _it is a period of civil war. Rebel ships, striking from a hidden base, have won their first victory against the evil Galactic Empire. During the battle, Rebel spies managed to steal secret plans to the Empire's ultimate weapon, the Death Star, an armored space station with enough power to destroy an entire planet. Pursued by the Empire's sinister agents, Princess Leia races home aboard her starship, custodian of the stolen plans that can save her people and restore freedom to the galaxy…*_ "

It didn't take long for the children to be completely enthralled by the tale of spaceships, princesses, danger, and the age-old battle of good against evil. It amazed Mary how much of it they accepted without questioning―although it was a story, after all.

It wasn't just the children who took notice of the story, however. After they had left the Williamson's and set off down the road for the next cottage, Matthew turned to her with a questioning look on his face. "That story you were telling them―how on earth did you come up with it?"

Mary tried not to gulp. If there was anything he wasn't supposed to ask her about, it was _Star Wars_. "I just cobbled it together, I suppose," she said casually. That was true, in a way. She was cobbling together her memories of the film, and realized that there might be some very confused adults further down the line, when the film came out for the first time.

"The only trouble now, I suppose, is trying to figure out what should happen to the Princess Leia now that she's been captured. Someone needs to save her, I suppose."

A small smile appeared on Matthew's lips. "The way Perseus saved Andromeda, you mean?"

"In a manner of speaking. Do you think the children would enjoy the story if there was garbage involved?"

* * *

Two hours later found them having a picnic in a stand of trees not too far from the road. Matthew's jacket had been spread out beneath them, and the two of them shared what little room there was to be had on it.

After a lull in their conversation, Mary looked away towards the trees surrounding them, then back a her half-eaten sandwich―anywhere but at Matthew, really. Today, they had managed to fall back into their old camaraderie so easily; she didn't want to ruin it again.

When she finally did drag her eyes back to Matthew's face, it was to find his eyes fixed on her, with the expression in them that he wore when he was trying to solve a puzzle.

"Out with it," he said. "What's gotten you into this state?"

"I am _not_ in a state!" she pretended to be peeved, but Matthew had always been able to read her like a book. His quirked eyebrow told her that denial was futile.

She sighed. Oh, very well, then. "It's just...I was…" One hundred years of life and vocabulary, and she couldn't formulate a simple sentence. She huffed in frustration, mindlessly picking crumbs off her sandwich, turning both her skirt and the lining of his jacket into a mess.

"Why―why did you come back, Matthew?"

He sighed, his eyes fogging with memory. "I knew all the while that I wasn't being fair to you, even as I was verbally eviscerating you that morning. But it was a bit like being in court; when I get going, I'm rather difficult to stop, I'm afraid," he gave a half-grimace before continuing, "and I think there was a fair amount of fear involved there, too. After all, I'd helped carry a dead man halfway across the house earlier that day. And―"

"Did you consider," Mary interrupted him, "even for one moment, how I might be feeling in all this? After all, the dead man you helped carry died in my room, after I hit him because he tried to...take advantage of me. Would you agree that all that might be a bit more traumatic than simply _carrying_ him?"

By then, Mary had relegated the remains of her sandwich to the blanket beside her and was gesticulating in the air. It occurred to her that it was quite likely that she looked ridiculous.

And quite frankly, she didn't care. "And then there was the aftermath― _God_ , Matthew!"

"How was it?"

"It was very much the aftermath of a foreign diplomat dying in your house. What did you think it was―a tea party?"

It did occur to Mary that too much sarcasm would not further her cause as much as she would have liked. But at that point, the memories of the days after the death had come flooding back, and she remembered the constant fear that someone had seen them, and would tell. She had considered locking herself in her room to avoid all contact with the outside world, but realized that the suspicion that might arouse would be a scandal in and of itself.

Mary gave a small, hollow laugh. "Do you know what it's like to act normal when everything obviously isn't?"

She hadn't been expecting an answer, so it shocked her a little when Matthew said, "Yes."

With her raised eyebrow prompting him, he continued, "Because I've spent the last four months that way."

 _Oh._

For the second time that day, Mary wasn't entirely sure what to say. "Shall we...call it quit, then?"

"I suppose we can. We've certainly made each other miserable enough."

Mary rolled her eyes. "And we are bound to make each other miserable again―it's our nature to, I think."

Matthew stood up, pulling her to her feet before shaking out his jacket. "Why, Lady Mary...I might almost say you speak from experience."

"Who knows?" her dark eyes flashed, and she found herself having to look up a little to see his face. Not too much―Mary was rather tall for a woman, after all, but she was close enough to him to have to look up. Her heart gave a small thump, and―

The moment―whatever there was of it―came to an unceremonious end when she felt her hat get snatched off her head.

"Why―what on earth―" she spun around to see a magpie absconding with her hat. The bejeweled hatpin had caught the bird's eye, and had obviously not done its job keeping her hat on her head, although she had to admit that she had not anticipated a bird strike when she had poked it through her hair. She lifted her skirts higher than was entirely proper, chasing after the bird, but soon found herself winded and bracing herself against a tree.

"Bring that back, you little punk!" she tried to yell, although she had to admit it came out rather more like a wheeze.

Behind her, Matthew was practically doubled over with laughter. She gave him an acid look. "It's _two_ for mirth, Matthew, not one. And I'm rather fond of that hat, you know."

Matthew continued to give occasional snickers as they followed the path the bird had taken before arriving at a tree where, as luck would have it, the magpie was sitting, looking rather pleased with itself, thought Mary. She looked at Matthew.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"You don't expect me to climb this tree in these skirts, do you?"

"I supposed you can't," Matthew gave the tree a look before hoisting himself onto a low branch and beginning the treacherous journey upwards. "I haven't done this in years, by the way."

"You're doing fine!" Mary called up, privately wondering how much trouble she would get into if the heir to Downton fell and broke his neck. Had it been anyone else, she would have prefered that outcome―but this was Matthew, halfway up a tree and about to rescue her hat from a bird, bless him.

A quick snatch and a scramble down the tree later, involving a quick drop that had Mary's heart in her throat, the hat―now covered in feathers and with a bird's dropping on the brim―was back in Mary's possession.

The two made their way back to the road, where they set off for Downton. The clouds were heavy but the day was warm, and Matthew had his jacket slung over his shoulder while Mary quietly sweated and cursed the inventor of women's fashion, damning him to a mile in heeled shoes and a hobbled skirt.

"Thank you for rescuing my hat," she finally said as the gates to the drive were coming up on them.

"Well, Perseus must make it a habit to rescue Andromeda, even if it isn't from sea monsters," Matthew grinned. "I do have one question, though…"

"Yes?"

"What on earth is a 'punk'?"

Mary was still laughing when she felt a drop of rain bypass her hat and land on her nose. She looked up―those were storm clouds, all right. Another drop landed on her face, followed by another.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she exclaimed, "it can't be raining―I didn't feel a twinge!"

Matthew shrugged on his coat. "Well, tinge or no, it's starting to rain. The only thing we can do now is beat it to the house."

* * *

She had not been expecting to have to sprint when she left the house this morning, thought Mary as they tumbled into the great hall. Had she expected calisthenics, she wouldn't have worn her corset quite so tight.

Next to her, Matthew was shaking rain drops off his hat. "How is it," he asked, "that you have twinges before it rains? The only person I know who has that is my mother."

"It's a, er...recent onset," Mary said glibly. _Don't give the game away, old girl._ "Now, will you be staying for dinner? Or at least get out of those wet clothes?"

No, not in _that_ way. Although now that you mentioned it...Mary shook her head imperceptibly in an attempt to clear it.

"No, thank you," Matthew shook his head. "Mother's expecting me at home. My jacket's doing a decent job of keeping me fairly dry, so if you have an umbrella I could borrow, I'll be on my way."

"A umbrella," Mary sniffed. "No, you'll take the car. T― _Branson_ will be happy to drive you."

The moment it was out of her mouth, Mary sensed how ridiculous that statement was. Firstly, Tom―or _Branson_ , as they were all calling him at the moment, was still a servant. The chance he would genuinely be happy to do some work was...slim at best. Secondly, this was _Tom_. Did she really think he was at all happy to drive the spoiled English aristocrats down into the village?

Well, she could address Tom's servant status later. Possibly one Sybil was a little older. Although...there really wasn't anything against them getting to know each other a little better now, was there?

She reached for the bell pull, causing a footman to appear almost instantaneously. Future technology, she knew, had its merits, but she doubted it would ever be able to beat pulling on a chain, making a bell ring, and having a servant appear practically out of thin air. It was, she thought, almost like magic.

With that thought making her lips twitch, she turned to the footman. "Could you have Branson bring the car round, please? Mr. Crawley needs to be taken home."

In what seemed like no time at all, the car was out front, and Matthew was getting in. The door shut behind him, Tom got in, and the car slowly rolled towards the gates at the end of the drive.

Mary stayed at the door until the car turned, disappearing from view, before closing the door. Smiling slightly to herself, she turned to go upstairs ahead of the dressing gong. Yes, she thought, it had been a rather good day indeed.

* * *

* _Star Wars_. _Yes, I know that the chances of Mary remembering all of this are slim. But you've suspended disbelief long enough for Mary to do some time-traveling...humor me, please?_

 _As usual, I can't guarantee when the next chapter will appear, but I do have a date with my sister to re-watch the first two seasons over the holidays. So you never know...I might end up feeling inspired._

 _Anne_


End file.
